


talk to me

by spools



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, just two bros in love while there's a war you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21866530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spools/pseuds/spools
Summary: Hilda doesn't keep it a secret.
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril & Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund & Hilda Valentine Goneril, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 3
Kudos: 65





	talk to me

Sometimes, Hilda doesn’t understand Marianne.

But _only_ sometimes. It’s endearing how she talks to animals like she understands them (Hilda would assume she does). It’s reassuring when she rushes across the battlefield when Hilda falls off the wyvern, mending her broken arm in merely a second. Hilda thinks, in many ways, Marianne is very admirable, reliable, amazing, strong— 

“Hey!” Claude whispers, snapping his fingers in front of Hilda. 

Hilda snaps to attention. She blinks. Curse this man and his braid.

“Daydreaming again, in the middle of Teach’s lecture?” Claude says in the sing-song voice he always has, with the smile that never reaches his eyes. He’s an amateur. “Hilda, could it be… you’re thinking about testing the new poison I mixed? Really, it’s amazing. And nonlethal, of course, I don’t resort to such things. First, you start getting very hungry, then, afterwards, you—”

“I’m just a weak little flower,” Hilda whines, a hushed whisper. “I’ll die if you even come near me.”

“That’s a shame,” Claude says. He grins. “What about all the favors you owe?”

“You can test it on someone else,” Hilda offers. 

“Hilda, Claude, can you please stop?” Byleth interrupts. They look at the Hilda with as close to a disapproving glance as their blank face could muster.

The rest of the Golden Deer house look away, silent.

Hilda pipes up, “I’m so sorry, Professor! Claude just started talking to me, and I couldn’t possibly ignore him.”

Claude lets out a snarky laugh, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. “Teach, we were having an academic discussion.”

“About what?” Byleth inquires.

Claude looks to Hilda — clearly not for help — with a knowing smile. He twirls his quill with his fingers. “Yeah, Hilda,” he goads, “what _were_ we talking about?”

Hilda blurts out, “The Fourth Edition of Faith and Magic: Spells and Their Origins!” much louder than she intended to.

“What about… the Fourth Edition of Faith and Magic: Spells and Their Origins?” Byleth recites.

“It’s very,” Hilda swallows, “cool.”

Raphael enthusiastically chimes in, “I agree!”

“Yes,” Lorenz agrees with a nod. “As faith magic is more or less only support spells, it’s undeniably valuable. A rose cannot bloom to its full potential without someone tending to it.”

“What Lorenz said,” Hilda adds. Lorenz gives a smug grin.

“Alright,” Byleth says, slightly louder than normal. “Talk after class, please.”

Hilda lets out a groan she'd been holding in for much too long. “Claude, you suck.”

Claude only hums innocently. “But… that book is very cool, right? I didn’t know you were learning faith. Maybe you should ask for help from Marianne.”

Marianne’s absorbed in the assignment and can't hear, thank the Goddess, but Hilda still hushes Claude harshly. 

Claude shrugs. “Just trying to help.”

Hilda flashes him a smile. “Riegan boy?”

“My dear Lady Goneril, what might you want from me?” Claude pretends he’s confused, furrowing his eyebrows and scratching his head. He snaps his fingers in realization. “Would you… like to try my new, deluxe herbal mix?”

“I think our favorite nobleman should have the privilege of tasting that.” Hilda looks over to Lorenz. Claude’s face brightens.

“Of course! Thanks again, Hilda, I really owe you.” Claude crosses the room to Lorenz, presenting a suspiciously colored satchel.

Hilda watches as Lorenz takes it, sniffs it, then jumps to his feet and flings it across the room.

+

“Do you come here often?” Hilda asks, pressing her hand against the stable doors.

Hilda was not expecting a reaction, and thus, was not expecting Marianne to cry out in surprise.

“O-Oh,” Marianne stammers. “It's just you, Hilda.”

“Me in the flesh,” Hilda agrees, proudly. The last time she’d talked to Marianne was in the library. “Do you… what do you do here? You're always here, so I'm interested… because I'm so, uh, diligent.”

“Um, yeah,” Marianne says, gently, but at the same time, her eyebrow raises in hesitation. “I just… tend to the horses.”

“Have you tended to them yet?” Hilda asks. There's a nervousness in her chest she's rarely felt before that simultaneously makes her stomach churn.

“No,” Marianne says, then eyes them wearily. “Perhaps I should… It's a little late right now.”

“Then I can help!” Hilda exclaims.

Marianne looks at her like she's grown another limb.

“... Is it something I said?”

“No. I just never expected you to willingly help anyone… much less, help me,” Marianne says, with a shy, earnest smile. 

If Hilda’s heart was jogging before, it's sprinting a marathon now. Hilda can't fight the color that warms on her face, her eager smile that feels genuine, the way she says, “Ok! I'll start!” despite knowing nothing about horses.

Hilda confidently walks towards nothing, watching Marianne grab a brush from the side of the stable. She turns around to follow.

“Be gentle,” Marianne advises, heading to the nearest horse and starting to comb through its mane. “They really enjoy it if you don't tug at them.”

“Do they bite?” Hilda asks. She grabs a brush, and positions herself as far away from the horse as possible. It whinnies at her.

“Every animal bites,” Marianne says, cryptically. “Some just bite harder than others.”

Hilda scrunches her eyes. “Worms don't bite.”

“Not worms,” Marianne agrees.

Hilda runs her brush through its mane, catching her breath whenever it snags on a tangle. Pissing off a horse was much more terrifying than pissing off Professor Byleth, but as far as she could see, her horse looked content enough.

Marianne says, “Um, you’re doing a really good job.” 

When Hilda peeks over, Marianne’s face is all red.

“Are you embarrassed?” Hilda asks, with a laugh. “I don't bite, y’know. I'm like a worm.”

Marianne scrunches her eyes, like it's painful. “It's… hard for me to make small talk,” she mumbles, turning away.

“That’s alright!” Hilda exclaims, driving the brush through a particularly nasty tangle. “It’s different for everyone. If it helps, I can just talk to myself so you don’t have to.”

Marianne smiles weakly, but her eyebrows are furrowed. “Thank you, Hilda.”

“No problem,” Hilda says, her heart beating so loud she can hear it. “Anytime you need help, you can ask me.”

Marianne nods, whispers something to her horse, then moves to the next.

Hilda blabbers on about her day, about Byleth’s stack of assignments, and about how the food in the dining hall was weirdly delicious. 

+

One day, in the dining hall, Marianne asks, hesitantly, “Is Freikugel good?”

Marianne’s more at ease when they talk. In fact, Hilda’s pretty sure than Marianne talks to her the most, even more than the professor, which could honestly be something to brag about.

Hilda doesn’t answer through the spoonful of mashed potatoes she’d shoved into her mouth. She chews slowly, contemplating the question and how the answer feels on her tongue. Then, after she swallows, she says, “No.” 

Even though it's been almost a week after they defended Fódlan’s Locket in place of her brother, Hilda had barely set a hand on the axe. The way it pulsated with power from her crest, how warm it felt in her hand, the little dips and curves of whatever material it was made of. When Ignatz barely brushed his arm against it and snatched his forearm away like it burned, it made her feel sick.

Marianne looks concerned, so Hilda leans back in her chair, casually crossing her arms. “Not like I really care, anyway. Professor doesn’t really care if I use it or not, so I gave it to them.”

Marianne says, “It looks like… nevermind, I’d rather not say.”

“Why not?” Hilda asks, more curious than threatening.

“It just… looks strange. Like bone,” Marianne admits, unease settling in her face. She cuts a small piece of pheasant and nibbles at it.

Hilda snorts. “Whose bones?”

Marianne dips her head. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s talk about something other than fighting. Or like, things related to fighting,” Hilda says, taking her glass of water and gulping it down. 

“Like what?”

Hilda thinks, head resting on her palm. “Next time you’re on cleaning duty, I can lend a hand.”

“If this is about the library, really, you don't have to,” Marianne says, embarrassed.

“But you managed to drop all the books from every bookshelf,” Hilda recalls, then giggles. “I can't believe someone can be that clumsy.”

“Accidentally,” Marianne reminds.

“You know,” Hilda says, and she leans forward until Marianne looks up and they’re eye to eye for a split second. But Marianne never maintains eye contact for long, and she looks away. “It's, like, kinda weird how you do better with animals than inanimate objects. But in a good way.”

Marianne blinks. “Thank you? You flatter me… I think?”

“Yeesh, you're always so humble,” Hilda says. Marianne seems to shrink away. “Oh, sorry, I'm rambling too much.”

“No, um, this is fine.” Marianne starts to pick at her food now. 

Hilda nods. “As I was saying, you never accept any compliments. Sometimes, it's just true, you know? Like your hairstyle is really pretty, and your eyes are also pretty.”

Hilda wants to slap herself on the forehead. She shoves a green bean in her mouth to shut herself up.

“What's wrong with being humble?”

“Nothing,” Hilda says, after she swallows. “But confidence feels nice.”

“That's a bit… difficult for me,” Marianne says, and she looks down at her plate again. “My adoptive father would think it’s fit for a noblewoman to be… as I am.”

“But how humble can a noble really be?” Hilda says, in a way that would probably be sacrilegious to Lorenz. “We're already walking around in jewelry that’s worth more than what a peasant cultivates in a year. And it's not even fashionable jewelry, mind you.”

“I suppose,” Marianne says. She stares at Hilda for a while, but never meets her eyes. Hilda tilts her head in confusion. “Um… don’t your earrings break school rules?”

“As the wise future leader of the Alliance once said, rules are meant to be broken,” Hilda waves off. “Dorothea wears hers all the time.”

“I just, um, don’t want you to get in trouble,” Marianne finally sets down her fork, her meal mostly untouched, “but your earrings, right now, they look very nice.”

“Of course they do!” Hilda exclaims, hiding her embarrassment behind a smile. She reaches to her ear and fiddles with it: a simple black hoop, with golden spheres at the top and the bottom. “I made them myself, you know. Do you want a pair?”

“Oh,” Marianne starts, startled. “Thank you, but I don't have piercings.”

“No biggie,” Hilda says, “I can make you a necklace instead.” She leans back, imagining a dainty necklace on Marianne, maybe a simple silver chain with a little silver Goddess and flowers. Oh Goddess, now she has to write a letter to her brother to send supplies, maybe go to the marketplace— 

“Really, it’s fine,” Marianne insists. “You don’t have to waste your efforts on me.”

Hilda pouts. “My efforts _never_ go to waste. Besides, this is a Hilda specialty. I’m even making one for Raphael’s sister. It’s not too much to make one for you, too.”

Marianne looks doubtful, but she concedes, “Alright.”

“When we have free time, do you want to come with me to the market?” Hilda asks, tapping her finger on the dining table in excitement. “You can pick out what metal and flowers you want. Or if you want neither of them, you can just pick something you like. I can make it work out.”

Marianne flinches. “My adoptive father doesn’t want me to go out of the monastery at all,” she says, quietly. “My preferences don’t really matter. Anything is fine.”

“Why can't you?” Hilda frowns. Holst had told her not to wander off alone, which was understandable, but Hilda could go anywhere as long as she was with someone else. “Is there not enough people? I can ask Raphael, then, we probably need more food.”

Marianne purses her lips. “It's… He… um, my adoptive father just doesn't want me to go. Sorry.”

“Then it's all up to me, right? I promise I'll make it look nice,” Hilda winks.

“Ah,” Marianne says, the faintest of a smile on her face, “thank you. I appreciate it.”

+

Yes, maybe the firebolt from the dark mage hit Hilda square in her chest. Maybe it was so strong it felt like her organs rattled around before settling into the wrong areas. Yes, maybe some of her ribs were broken. Yes, maybe it felt like the concoction she downed did nothing at all. But she can’t afford to call Marianne, who’s healing Raphael’s leg that almost burnt to a crisp.

He laughs it off, because he’s Raphael. Hilda can see the charred skin (she can smell it, too) turning into a sickly gray color, then into a flaming patch of red. 

“I didn’t see that guy, and next thing you know, my calf is on fire!” he says, jovial, but it’s hard to hide how it obviously hurts. Hilda can understand. She’s doing that right now.

“Be careful!” Byleth says. With a grunt, they knock the last turned villager on the head with the hilt of their sword; he drops to the ground with a thud. Byleth is so close to the Death Knight now, if they threw their sword, it could probably hit him. 

Hilda winces when her wyvern swerves to dodge an arrow. 

“Sorry!” Ignatz yells. 

“Be careful where you’re aiming,” Lysithea says, curtly. 

Hilda has to control her breathing, first of all. She can barely breathe now, and the pain steadily radiates out from her chest to her head. _If_ she passes out, she can’t pass out until she throws an axe at Solon’s head, like what the professor had dedicated to her, despite her protests.

She huffs. Damn the professor for not giving the job to Leonie instead.

Solon’s face grows sick, disappointed. There’s so much evil radiating around him that Hilda feels physically repulsed. “Do you think a lowly beast like you can kill me?” he sneers.

Hilda doesn’t respond. It’s not worth wasting her energy. She has to hurry. Hilda throws her axe, watching Solon give a confident smile, easily blasting it away with a spell.

Her wyvern dodges it, swoops behind Solon, and Hilda blindly swings another axe with all her might, barely lodging it in the middle of his back. 

Solon makes a strangled sound. Hilda’s lucky it even touched him.

“Why have you come to this village?” Jeralt demands, following closely behind her on his horse. “What are you planning?”

Hilda can barely hear Solon’s response. There’s rushing in her ears. He disappears in a purple haze.

She slumps on her wyvern, and takes a deep breath that hurts her chest. She's alive, even though the village is not. Remire Village is burnt to a crisp, the putrid stench of smoke mixed with the scent of death and blood. There's weapons and corpses strewn on the ground. It's as close enough to dead as it could be.

“Good job!” Leonie exclaims, dirt on her cheek. She’d discarded her bow on the ground, and her horse disdainfully stomps at the ground. Now, Leonie crouches next to a child, applying a vulnerary to his burns. 

“Don’t slack off now, Hilda,” Claude warns, an arrow notched in his bow. He’s positioned towards the Death Knight, who confronts Byleth, and his expression is uncharacteristically grim. 

“This is enough work for the whole month. Tell Professor to never make me do this again,” Hilda manages to choke out. Every inhale and exhale seemed to hurt more than the last.

The Death Knight blocks Byleth’s every swing, quick on his horse. Hilda finds herself staring in horror, Byleth just managing to dodge many stabs that would skewer them in the throat.

Claude wipes his forehead, shiny with sweat. 

Hilda lets out a pained sigh. Then, she passes out.

When Hilda stirs, everything around her is a murky blur. Her abdomen is wrapped in a layer of bandages that feel suffocating.

“Her ribs were cracked?” Leonie whispers. “Did you know, Professor?”

“No,” says Byleth, their voice low, shaky. “If I knew, I would've called for a healer.”

Marianne’s voice trembles. “I-I'm so sorry that I didn't notice. If I did, I would have rushed over to heal her, I swear on the Goddess.”

“You were busy tending to the villagers who got attacked,” Leonie says, matter-of-factly. “It's not your fault at all.”

“Still, I wonder w-why she didn't tell me,” Marianne mumbles. “I could've helped.”

“Your arms were shaking and you almost fainted,” Leonie points out. 

“You've already strained yourself enough,” Byleth says. “Please, don't overexert yourself. I think Professor Manuela did an extraordinary job.”

Hilda kept her eyes closed, but only now does she realize she's in the infirmary. There's a blanket draped over her.

“Yes,” Leonie agrees. “Besides, Hilda’s tough. You saw her chop up Solon. It’s not your fault.”

“I'm still sorry,” Marianne whispers, and Hilda can feel Marianne’s hand reach to grasp hers. Her hand is shaky and soft and warm.

Hilda freezes. 

This doesn’t mean anything. Surely, Marianne would do this with anyone. Maybe this is commonplace, but no one has been injured enough for it to happen before, and Hilda is just the idiot who’s the first.

“I think Hilda is close to being completely healed,” Byleth comments. “She just needs to rest. We mustn't disturb her too much.”

“You need to rest too, Professor. The Death Knight—” Leonie starts.

“I’m fine,” Byleth insists. 

“Then I’ll go so I won’t bother Hilda,” Leonie offers. “Goodnight, Professor, Marianne.” Without being prompted by a response, there’s a rapid tapping of footsteps — probably Leonie heading away.

“Are you going to stay, Marianne?” asks Byleth. “It’s quite late.” 

“Ah…” Marianne sounds uneasy. “Well…” 

Marianne lets go of her hand, and Hilda can hear a pair of hushed whispers, followed by another set of footsteps.

The infirmary is deathly silent.

Some part of Hilda desperately wants Marianne to stay. To hold her hand, even though the pain is long gone, to whisper reassurances at her side. 

But Marianne is probably gone by now. Hilda lets out a frustrated groan.

“Oh no. Does it still—”

As soon as she hears Marianne’s voice, Hilda opens her eyes in shock. It's dark in the infirmary. The only light comes from a candle on the bedside that flickers in and out. With the light, Hilda can see Marianne, who has her hand suspended over Hilda’s forehead. 

Marianne stares at her for a second or two, eyes wide. Then, she jumps back.

“A-Are you awake?” she stammers, holding her hand with her other one like it's burnt.

“Oh— Yes!” Hilda says cheerfully, hoping to spare Marianne any embarrassment. She pushes herself up, the blanket falling to her legs, and stretches, wincing. Whoever wrapped the bandages clearly did not know the limitations of the human body. It was so tightly bound around her ribs that it hurt.

“That's good,” Marianne says, avoiding her gaze. “You were asleep for a… few hours.”

“No, that's no good,” Hilda frowns. She notices that Marianne’s hair is down, falling in waves down her back. “Is it really late?”

“Well past curfew,” Marianne sheepishly admits.

“You should go back to your room,” Hilda suggests. “You don’t want to face Professor’s wrath when you sleep through their class.” 

“That's no problem,” Marianne says. “Um, if it's okay, I can just stay here with you.”

“These beds are not comfortable,” Hilda observes, pushing her hand down on the mattress. It feels like a sack of rocks in comparison to the one in her room. “C’mon, we can walk to the dorms together.”

Marianne looks hesitant. She mumbles, “You’re still weak.”

“What?” Hilda huffs, indignant. “I am not.” She throws the blanket off, feeling the chill of the night on her legs. Hilda carefully sets one foot on the ground, then the other, and almost collapses as soon as she tries to stand up.

“See?” Marianne says, miserably. “I don’t know what spell hit you, but you’re a lot weaker now. The effects are prolonged too, because you went so long without treatment.”

Hilda feels a pang of guilt. “I didn’t want to bother you. Besides, no one would expect that I’d get hurt.”

“Why not?” Marianne asks. 

“Huh?”

“Why would no one expect you to get hurt? You… you were tasked with Solon, after all.”

Hilda stops to think, clasping her hands together. She doesn’t know, really. She expected someone to call her lazy and unreliable and step in for her, but even if that did happen, Hilda wouldn’t allow someone else to get hurt in place of her.

“I don’t know,” Hilda admits, looking down. 

“Exactly. And it's not like I would be too weak to help you.” Marianne furrows her eyebrows and closes her eyes. “I’m sorry for saying this, but next time, don’t be so reckless,” she says, with some difficulty.

“Marianne, are you scolding me?” Hilda gasps.

“I'm serious,” Marianne says sternly. “Trust me.”

Hilda looks up, surprised at her unfamiliar tone. Marianne’s eyebrows furrow, her lips tightly pursed, but her eyes are still focused on the ground. 

“If you insist,” Hilda concedes. “If I need it, then I'll call you for help, from now on.”

“Yes,” Marianne agrees, stifling a yawn. “For now, you should sleep. Here.”

“Will you go back to your room?” Hilda asks. She hopes she doesn't sound as desperate as she feels.

“I can just sleep in the other bed.”

“Professor Manuela will get mad.”

“I'll just pray to the Goddess that she won't,” Marianne responds. 

“Ooh, rebellious,” Hilda comments. She doesn’t think it’ll help much, but she adds, “I'll pray, too.”

\+ 

The Golden Deer classroom is much messier than the other classes — mostly because of Claude, who stacks mysterious vials and books on the tables. When Hilda enters, to her dismay, there's a myriad of Claude Stuff laying around the classroom. Hilda can see books, fish, plants, forks, dishes, and even a cat.

Lysithea sits at the front of the classroom, but she turns around as soon Hilda approaches. Her eyes are wary. “Good morning. I thought you were Claude.”

“Is he still bringing things here?” Hilda asks, knowing the answer. 

“When has he stopped?” Lysithea grumbles. On her table is a stack of books, a potted fern, and a jar of ink, as well as her own supplies. “I wish Professor would say something about this. It’s awfully hard to write notes when Claude moves everything from the dining hall here.”

“I feel like they had, but now they just gave up,” Hilda comments. She strolls to the front of the classroom to set her notebook (that had no notes inside) and quill down, then heads back to Lysithea.

“Maybe,” Lysithea agrees, but her eyebrows are furrowed. “After class, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. This classroom is not a storage space.” 

“Can I watch?” Hilda asks, excited.

“Sure, though I think it’s not necessary,” Lysithea shrugs. She stiffens. “We summoned him.”

“Hilda!” Claude exclaims. He enters the classroom casually, but the burlap sack slung over his shoulder is painfully suspicious. “You're not late today. Nice scarf, by the way.”

“Do you want it?” Hilda asks, reaching for her scarf subconsciously. She eyes the sack with a mixture of worry and intrigue. Lysithea starts to sweep things off the table, and spreads her arms out, attempting to block Claude. “And what do you mean, not late _today_? I’m always punctual.”

Claude hums like he agrees. “Nah, keep it. Pink clashes with my outfit.” He surmises the room, letting out a disappointed sigh. “There's too many things here.”

“Whose fault might that be?” Hilda asks, innocently.

“Hey, the Blue Lions’ head is Manuela, right?” 

“What are you planning?” Lysithea asks.

Hilda grows more and more concerned by the second.

“Oh, so that's a yes, right? I was thinking that there's too much space in the Blue Lions classroom that's left unused.” Claude’s already headed out the entrance, whistling with each step. “What a waste.”

Lysithea lets out a sigh of relief when Claude is out of sight.

“Professor Manuela will kill you,” Hilda counters, quickly following behind.

“No, she won't,” Claude says it with so much certainty that Hilda knows he'd tried it before.

“Dimitri will kill you,” Hilda tries again. “He'll snap you in half like a stick. Y’know, once, he broke an iron lance in the training grounds.”

Claude stops in his tracks and looks at her, eyes wide. “You're joking.”

“I’m not,” Hilda says. “Ask Lorenz and Professor, and, like, anyone who could hear the snap from a mile away.”

Claude’s grin is unsettling. “Well, if he tries it, then Teach will get mad at him for killing their favorite student.”

“You are in no way—” Hilda stops when Claude continues walking, making a beeline towards the Blue Lions classroom. “Claude! They're inside.”

“But Professor Manuela isn’t,” Claude reassures. Hilda quickly follows. He's right; Manuela isn't there, but all the Blue Lions turn to ogle at Claude as he saunters inside like he belongs there.

“... Did you transfer?” Sylvain asks, looking excited. “Man, I didn’t even know you could do that. Do you think I can transfer to Professor Byleth's class?”

“Listen up!” Claude says, in a loud voice that makes everyone turn to him. Hilda would die before she would admit but, but he would make a great, charismatic leader — just his tone alone made everyone turn to him to watch him attentively. “Teach asked me to place this here.”

“Why in this classroom, specifically? I don't object to this, if Professor said it, but why not the Golden Deer classroom?” Dimitri asks. As expected, he's in the very back of the classroom, in front of the blackboard.

“Because he's a liar,” Hilda answers. 

“Hey—” Claude starts, then stops to pinch the base of his nose, exasperated. “How can I get sabotaged by someone in my own class? You guys suck. I'll go ask Edelgard, then.”

“What makes you think she'll say yes?” Hilda scoffs. 

“What makes you think she’ll say no?” Claude replies.

“You can’t just answer my question with another question. It doesn’t work like that.”

Claude spins on his heel to face the entrance. His eyes widen, and he reaches his free arm up for a friendly wave. “Hey! Marianne!”

“I know she isn't there. I'm not falling for this,” Hilda says, with utmost certainty.

“Can you guys act out somewhere else?” Felix says sharply. “Like, somewhere that's not this classroom.”

“Hey, Marianne!” Claude says, ignoring Felix completely. “Are you cold?”

“Ah,” Marianne starts. Hilda whips to look behind her, and surely enough, Marianne is there, wearing a furry blue coat that pools at her feet. She shivers.

Claude has a smug grin. Hilda makes a face back at him.

“Y-Yeah,” Marianne says, her teeth chattering from the cold.

“Isn't Edmund territory in the north?” Hilda asks. 

“Yes, but I-I was adopted, s-so I didn't g-grow up th-there,” Marianne stammers, hunched even farther down into her coat. 

“In Faerghus, spring is usually as warm as it is right now,” Dimitri states.

“It's winter right now, Dimitri,” Hilda says, sounding more snarky than she'd hoped.

“I'm well aware of that,” he responds.

“Cool!” Claude says. “So, I can put this sack here, right?”

“Why d-does Claude h-have th-that?” Marianne whispers, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Hilda. It's probably warmer that way (for Hilda, at least).

“Do you ever expect an answer from Claude?” Hilda whispers back.

“No.”

“Exactly. Let's go back to the Golden Deer classroom,” Hilda suggests. Claude is caught in a dangerous tango of trying to convince Dimitri while simultaneously avoiding all of Dedue’s questions.

“Ah, s-sure,” Marianne nods. She shivers when Hilda links their arms together and guides her outside, so Hilda quickens her pace. There's a thin layer of snow dusting the top of the grass in the courtyard. 

“Are you still feeling cold?” Hilda asks.

Marianne nods.

Without thinking, Hilda unwraps her scarf from her neck, and offers it to Marianne. “Do you want it?”

Marianne’s cheeks flush pink. “It's f-fine.”

“I'm not that cold, so I don't have a use for it anyways,” Hilda insists. Her heart beats faster when she raises the scarf up to Marianne’s head. “I'll help you wrap it,” she offers, unlinking their arms to nervously look away.

“Oh.” Out of the periphery of her vision, Hilda can see Marianne averting her eyes. “Of course.”

As carefully as she can, Hilda drapes her scarf around Marianne’s neck, tying the gentlest knot she possibly can, with Marianne strictly looking to the side. Once she’s done, Hilda stands back.

Hilda snorts.

“D-Do you want it b-back?” Marianne shivers.

“No,” Hilda says, stifling back a laugh. The pink of her scarf stands out against the blue of Marianne’s coat and hair. “The colors clash. But if you’re warm, keep it.”

“T-Thanks,” Marianne says, with a warm smile. 

Once they’re inside the Golden Deer classroom, Hilda shuts the doors. “Should I lock it?” she asks. “Keep Claude out.”

“But everyone else,” Marianne says. “We're very early today.”

“Aw,” Hilda says. Marianne still shakes, despite being inside the building. “Do you ever wish there was a fireplace here?” Hilda asks, having never thought of that before.

“Not until now,” Marianne says.

“Lysithea,” Hilda calls. Lysithea turns around, holding a quill dripping ink. “Can you do bolganone?”

Lysithea scowls. “Is that an insult? That easy spell? Of course I can do it! Are you insinuating that I can't because of my age?”

“Hey, I never said that,” Hilda says, raising her hands up in apology. “Can you make, like, a mini-mini bolganone for Marianne? She's cold.”

Marianne says, “No, no, you really don't have to.”

Lysithea purses her lips. “I could,” she says, her eyes lighting up, “but if you want a mini bolganone, like a torch, I need some kindling.”

“Oh, no…” Hilda trails off.

A smile spreads on Lysithea’s face. “Claude really has too many things here. He won't miss them if some go missing.” 

“Hell hath no fury like Claude scorned,” Hilda replies. “He’ll make you test his new poisons. It doesn’t matter how careful you are. He _always_ finds a way.”

“He can try,” Lysithea says. 

“Really, you don’t have to,” Marianne says. “I’m fine.”

Lysithea shakes her head fervently. “I must. There are far too many things in here.”

“I can just ask Professor to teach me bolganone,” Marianne insists. She takes a seat near the back of the classroom. “Besides, Hilda… gave me her scarf, so it’s better now.”

“You want to learn bolganone?” Byleth asks, entering the classroom with a stack of books in their arms. “Perhaps I should learn it too. It's much too cold.”

“You don't look like you're cold,” Hilda observes. Byleth still wears what they normally wear.

“I’m not freezing, but it’s chilly,” Byleth shrugs. 

“Professor, remember how we won the Battle of the Eagle and Lion two months ago?” Lysithea asks, her hand raised high in the air. “I've thought of forty alternate battle formations that I’d like you to review.”

“After class,” Byleth promises. Class hasn’t even started yet, Hilda notes with a snicker. They clear the Claude Stuff off their desk by sweeping it to the ground.

Hilda’s notebook and quill are still in the front table, where she usually sits with Claude. She sits down there, then turns back to look at Marianne.

Marianne fidgets with the end of Hilda’s scarf. 

+

The ballroom is large but suffocating. The girls were good at dancing (particularly Edelgard, who offered Hilda a kindly smile as she spun her around) but not the boys. When the eighth noble boy offers her his hand to the same dance to the same music, Hilda loses it.

“Sorry,” Hilda says, not so apologetically, and the boy stares at her like she spat in his face. Dodging the crowd, she slips outside to the balcony, and drinks in the fresh air. 

Marianne, looking down the balcony, flinches when the door shuts. A bird escapes into the sky. Her back is turned. “Sorry, but I said I didn’t want to dance—”

“It’s Hilda,” Hilda says, then plops next to Marianne, peering down into the garden. The fountain gushes out water that Hilda has to squint to see. Marianne lets out a sigh of relief. “Noble boys?”

“All of them,” Marianne says glumly. She rests her chin on her arms.

“Aren't you popular?” Hilda teases. 

“You flatter me,” Marianne says, but she sounds miserable. “But if I wasn’t of House Edmund, no one would spare a glance.”

“I would, no matter who you are,” Hilda blurts out before she has a chance to control herself. Her face ablaze, she shamefully glances at Marianne, whose eyes are still focused on the garden below. “Be your friend,” she quickly adds.

Marianne smiles, then sinks her face deeper into her arms until her cheeks are covered by the sleeves of her uniform. “Of course you would.”

Hilda doesn’t know how to respond, but she’s grateful that the darkness hides the flush on her face. Following Marianne, she sets her arms on the railing, then rests her head against it, closing her eyes. They’re not particularly high off the ground, so Hilda has no concerns about falling over.

It's so quiet, she can hear the laughter from the ball, the sound of wind rustling leaves, the spurts of water from the fountain. And if she really strains to hear, footsteps on cobblestone, and someone talking with someone else as they pass by the balcony, hidden by the cover of the night.

Hilda’s heart beats soundly in her chest, but there's none of the weightlessness that frequently accompanies that feeling when she soars the air on a wyvern. There's only Marianne, whose presence is the sole reason Hilda is grounded.

“Um,” Marianne says. “Can I say something?”

“Duh,” Hilda replies, her eyes still closed.

“Um, you know how you always ask everyone to help you?” Marianne says. “Even if they’re not in our class?”

“Are you scolding me again?” Hilda pouts. 

“No,” Marianne says, her voice certain. “You’re just… very resourceful.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Hilda says, imagining a wisp of a smile on Marianne’s lips. “Besides, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t ask for help. People help me because they want to, once they realize how dainty and fragile I am. People always do that, y’know, no matter who or what it is. They just want to protect someone, ‘cause it makes them feel better about themselves.”

“Do you help me because you think I'm dainty and fragile?” Marianne asks. If anyone else said it, Hilda would imagine a frown, or a disappointed shake of the head. 

“That's giving too much credit to me. I help you because I want to. You're my really good friend,” Hilda huffs. 

Marianne doesn't respond for a solid minute. 

“Hey, did you leave? Was that so unbelievable?” Hilda asks, nervously opening her eyes and tilting her head up. Marianne is still next to her, hand on the railing, a blank expression on her face as if she's staring at something far away.

Finally, Marianne says, “That's the first time anyone said that to me.”

“What,” Hilda frowns, “that you give too much credit to me?”

“That we're friends,” Marianne says wistfully. The wind makes the hair that had fallen out of her updo swirl around her neck. “My… adoptive father doesn’t want me to have friends.”

“That's stupid,” Hilda grumbles. “He wants so much from you. What's wrong with having some friends?”

“Ah,” Marianne hesitates, “that I, um, might be a danger to them.”

Hilda’s eyes widen so much, she can feel them coming out of their sockets. “Huh? You? An angel on Fódlan, a danger?”

Marianne covers her mouth with her knuckles. “I've… said too much. Sorry, pretend, um, that I didn't say anything.”

“Uh… okay,” Hilda agrees. She reminds herself that tonight, she would write a letter to Holst to ask him what the hell was wrong with Margrave Edmund, and maybe give him a piece of her mind.

“Yeah,” Marianne says, awkwardly. “Sorry.”

Desperate to continue the conversation, Hilda exclaims, “Oh, I almost forgot!” As Marianne watches her, bewildered, Hilda reaches inside the pocket of her uniform, fishing out a silver chain. The resin flower that dangles in the center catches the moonlight, displaying all the real flowers carefully placed and preserved inside. “This is for you, ‘cause I said I'd make one for you, like, five months ago.”

“Oh, that's… beautiful. But, um, are you sure you want to give it to me?”

Hilda sets the chain on her palm, and holds it out to Marianne. “Duh, it's custom made for you. The silver’s been enchanted, you see, so it enhances your white magic, and the flower has protective runes. This is a Hilda specialty.”

“Thank you,” Marianne gingerly picks up the necklace and examines it. “It's… even prettier up close. Um, can I put it on?” 

“Yep, just place it around your neck,” Marianne does that, “and don't put your fingers near the clasps.”

The necklace closes with a satisfying click, and Marianne places her hands down. The cross dangles just above her collar bone. “Magic?”

Hilda grins. “You know it.”

“Thank you so much,” Marianne mumbles, picking up the flower and rolling it in her fingers. 

“Don't sweat it,” Hilda exclaims. She rests her arm across Marianne’s shoulders, relieved when she doesn't flinch. 

+

Hilda finds Marianne at the cathedral.

It’s well past curfew, but Seteth and Archbishop Rhea aren’t strict with enforcing it on those who show their faith. Not that it matters, anyway, with Edelgard ready to attack the monastery tomorrow. 

In truth, Hilda’s skeptical on protecting the Garreg Mach. Edelgard had technically declared war on the Church of Seiros, not on the Officer’s Academy. So Edelgard would probably spare her if she saw Hilda standing in the midst of battle (at least, she’d hope as much.) Despite that, Archbishop Rhea had insisted that Byleth would continue to instruct their students. 

“You guys are students, not mercenaries,” Byleth said, shaking their head. “If I were Rhea, I would let you guys go instead of cooping you here.” But they don’t.

With war imminent, the cathedral is never empty. Priests gather to pray, to hope for blessings from the Goddess. Marianne and Ignatz frequent it often. That’s why Hilda knows exactly where to look — not Marianne’s dorm, not the stables, but here.

Marianne stands in the middle of the cathedral, her head dipped, and hands raised. If they weren’t in the cathedral, Hilda would assume she’s crying instead of praying.

Hilda’s hesitant to approach her. Marianne is very devout, and it would probably be breaking some religious law if Hilda were to interrupt her prayers. Or something.

Hilda would pray to pass the time, but what would she even pray for? Every time the archbishop recited a sermon from memory, Hilda never participated in the prayers, her eyes wide open as she snickered with Claude on how stupid everyone looked.

Speak of the devil. Claude sits on a pew near the front, head down. Hilda would've walked straight past him, but as soon as he spots her, he waves her over.

“I thought you weren’t religious,” Hilda comments.

“Not to your Goddess,” Claude says. He always says that when someone asks, but he never says more. “But you’re not religious either.”

“I’m hoping a handsome knight will come and whisk me away once he realizes how beautiful and scared I am,” Hilda says, placing a hand on her heart and leaning back, “so that I won’t have to fight in this dumb war.”

“How well spoken,” Claude grins, “you should write a novel.”

“I’m already writing one. Wanna see my manuscript?”

“No,” Claude wrinkles his nose, “I can imagine it already. Six hundred pages of Marianne—”

Hilda hushes him, bringing her hand down from her chest. 

“It’s not like it’s a secret,” Claude shrugs. “Everyone knows.”

“Everyone but Marianne,” Hilda groans. “You know, confessing to your friend is only _sometimes_ romantic. More non-romantic than romantic. Like, I won't mind if she says no, but will we still be friends after?”

“You'll never know until you try,” Claude shrugs, an awful attempt at consolation. When Hilda peeks over the pew, she can see an opened bottle of ink, and a week’s supply of parchment, half of it balled up and thrown aside. He has a quill in his hand, dripping ink down another scribbled-on parchment.

“Seteth gets real mad if you get anything here dirty,” Hilda warns as soon as she notices. “Remember when I tried to eat during prayer time? He heard me and he made me drop my food. Then, he got mad at me for spilling sauce everywhere, even though it was technically his fault, since I wouldn’t have dropped it if he didn’t yell at me.”

“Teach asked me for schemes, and how can I refuse them?” Claude asks. “Seteth won't mind a little bit of ink.” Hilda sneaks a glance at his parchment; it's a map of Garreg Mach.

“It must be real serious if Professor asked you.”

“They consulted their best tactician.”

“Do you think it'll work?” Hilda asks quietly. “The Imperial Army is much larger than the one here.”

“No,” Claude says casually, but Hilda can still see him scribbling notes across the paper. All the other papers he'd tossed aside must've had the same treatment. “But I believe in Teach, so I'm doing this for them.”

“Ugh, isn't it kinda messed up how they're sending kids to war? Lysithea is sixteen,” Hilda comments, not really expecting an answer from Claude.

“Don't let her hear that,” Claude cautions. “Lysithea's crazy strong now. She learned how to silence people from Marianne.” He doesn’t answer her.

“Whatever. I'm right. I should be in the Goneril Estate, not in a war,” Hilda grumbles. “I could be relaxing while Holst does everything.”

Claude writes, _Defend Garreg Mach, but not with your lives. Intercept troops head-on. Wyverns and archers to mages. Throw a celebratory party for Claude’s amazing brain, maybe._

When Hilda arches her eyebrow, Claude balls up the parchment and throws it aside.

“Fódlan’s Locket,” he reminds her. He finally sets his quill down. “You’ll have to fight the Almyrans once a moon, give or take.”

“I don’t want to fight them, either,” Hilda groans. “We should just throw a big party and invite them.”

“No one's ever thought of that before. You should be the new leader of the Alliance.”

“Nah, that’s too much work.”

He then points to her, accusatory. “Despite our conversation, you, Goneril, still have not told me what you’re doing here,” he says, wagging his finger in a sinister way that mostly reminded Hilda of how he would imitate Seteth. “Would it be…” Claude doesn’t have to finish his sentence; he only jerks his head towards Marianne.

Hilda nods. 

“This might be the last time you’ll ever see each other,” Claude starts.

“Wow, that's so reassuring.”

“I don’t mean dying in battle. I’ll never allow that,” Claude says, and, for some reason, Hilda knows he’s entirely serious. His face is hardset with determination. “Little birdie told me that you're all expected to go back to your territory to defend it if Garreg Mach ends up being a disaster. Last time I checked, Goneril territory isn’t that close to Edmund territory.”

“That’s why I’m planning on talking to her now,” Hilda says, and her eyes glance over. Marianne’s head is still down. She’s still praying, despite the chatter that now surrounds her. “But it isn’t really… appropriate. Honestly, I’m planning to save my confession for some place more romantic, maybe after the war. I wonder how long I’ll have to wait.”

“It isn’t hopeless,” Claude says, and all the unease in his face is replaced by a carefree grin. “You can still send letters to her, but those have to pass through Riegan territory first.”

“You won't read them, right?” Hilda asks sweetly, offering her signature smile. “Wouldn't it make you feel so bad if you read someone’s private letters? Especially if that someone is Marianne?”

“I'll think about it,” Claude replies, his face serious. When Hilda glares at him, his smile is back, as easy as ever. “Hey, hey, it's a joke! Besides, I'm your number one supporter. I won't do anything weird.”

“Nothing weird,” Hilda echoes.

“Nothing bad?”

“You can still do worse.”

“Nothing horrible?”

“Claude, you—”

He waves her away with his hand. “You're spending too much time talking to me, when Marianne is waiting. Shoo. I'm strategizing.”

Hilda peeks at his newest sheet of parchment. There's a scribbly drawing of her with devil horns. “You—”

Claude crosses the horns out and writes _wyvern?_ on the side. “Strategizing,” he says smugly. “Just talk to her. She doesn't come to the cathedral unless she's really stressed.”

Hilda pouts. “You should've told me that earlier, so I didn't have to talk to you so much.”

“Now you're motivated. Go, talk to her,” Claude says. Then, he tilts his head back down at the papers, pretending to be engrossed, while his eyes are pointedly looking up at Hilda.

Hilda sighs, but she slowly approaches Marianne, moving so quietly that she can't even hear the sound of her own footsteps. Instead of tapping on her shoulder, which would probably startle her, Hilda says, “Marianne?”

Marianne slowly lifts her head up. Her dark circles are even larger, her posture hunched over, but her hands are still tightly clasped in prayer. Hilda can see the ends of a chain protruding from her hands — Marianne is clutching Hilda’s necklace. “Hi, Hilda.”

Marianne looks so forlorn, so tired, so exhausted. Wordlessly, Hilda reaches her arms around Marianne’s neck, tiptoeing so she can hug her. Thankfully, Marianne doesn't recoil. 

But she doesn't hug Hilda back. Her arms linger at her side.

“I'm gonna miss you,” Hilda whispers, after a minute of complete silence. “I'll write letters everyday and make Holst bribe the wyvern mailers to hurry up.”

“Me too. O-Only the writing letters thing,” Marianne says, finally lifting her arms to rest around the small of Hilda's back. “I… You’re a really good friend, Hilda. Thank you for spending so much time with me.”

“That's what friends do,” Hilda huffs. “Don't die on me. If you do, I ‘ll never forgive you. I'll personally march to the Goddess and yell at her to bring you back. I’ll wage another war.”

“I—” Marianne looks like she’s about to argue, but she pauses. Her dark circles are so prominent that it’s worrisome. “I won't. I… promise.”

“You should sleep,” Hilda suggests, not wanting to pry her arms away from Marianne just yet. It's difficult to hold this position — Marianne is basically crouching, and Hilda is almost lifted off the ground, but neither of them attempt to move. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

Marianne hesitantly replies, “I… can't. That's why I'm here.”

“You can sleep on those infirmary beds, but not in your room?” Hilda gasps, astonished. 

“It's different. Really, I'm fine.” Marianne insists. 

“If you want to stay here, at least sleep on the pews. Hm, I should've brought you a blanket.”

Marianne doesn't respond. 

Hilda bites her lip. Part of her wants to just confess, knowing that it can’t happen, it couldn’t possibly happen with a war a hair’s width away. Any coherent words catch in her throat. She tries, “Pretty please?” 

Marianne doesn’t respond for a moment. “Um, I'll go back to the dorms, then,” she concedes, not as reluctant as Hilda would've thought. She loosens her arms and hangs them by her sides, and Hilda begrudgingly releases herself from Marianne’s neck. “I finished my prayers already.”

“What did you pray for?” Hilda asks.

Marianne takes some time to think. “Our safety.”

The faraway stare in Marianne’s eyes say otherwise — but Hilda doesn’t question it. She doesn’t dare to, when this could possibly be their last meeting.

“Let’s go,” Hilda murmurs, with some difficulty. “I’ll walk with you.”

Their walk back is completely silent. In her head, Hilda reminds herself to pester Holst into buying stacks of parchment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't think it would be this long ?$#$ but there will be a chapter during the 5 years byleth's gone and a verdant wind chapter

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't expect it to get this long........ r$%#@%$ my bad


End file.
